Blood and Moon
by Galiko
Summary: Black Tiger/Barnaby noncon.


Name/Theme: 269. Blood and moon.  
>Fandom: Tiger &amp; Bunny<br>Characters/Pairings: Black Tiger/Barnaby  
>Summary: Black TigerBarnaby noncon.

Barnaby isn't sure how this happened.

Somehow, he's bound – the jangle of handcuffs tightly snapped about his wrists jarring him back to some sort of coherency as he attempts to shift back onto his knees and sit up from where his face is planted into the floor. That doesn't work for one reason or another; partially, it's the dizziness and haziness of his own head, but the other part is the fact the cuffs are simply looped through a simple hook upon the stone floor.

It's not like he could have risen to his feet even if he tried, what with how tumultuous his mind is. It's not like he _wanted_ to in his current state – he's cold, shivering, naked as the day he was born and so very, very disoriented. Where _is he?_ He can't see a thing, and he's dizzy enough to not understand that a blindfold is tightly tied into place over his eyes at first.

And then a hand brushes down his spine, and he takes a moment to panic – thrashing, attempting to squirm onto his side and _away_, and whoever it is just laughs, catching him by one lean leg and twisting him back around onto all fours.

"Take it easy, Bunny-chan."

Barnaby swallows down a whimper as his mouth goes dry and the will to struggle simply seems to slide out of him. The voice is too familiar, but it simply won't connect in his mind who it_ is._ Where is Maverick? Wasn't that the last place he had been at, Maverick's home? Why is he _here_ instead?

"If you behave," the voice continues, deceivingly low and warm, "I'll be nice."

Is that a _good_ shudder that sweeps up his spine? No, _no_, he isn't turned on by this. He doesn't like how that voice makes his knees go weak and his thighs shake in an attempt to pick up the strain. He _certainly_ doesn't like those warm, calloused palms brushing hair back from his face and then fingers running over his lips.

So he bites. Logically.

There isn't a hiss of pain, but instead a simple wrench of fingers away and the hard follow-up of a backhand that sends his senses reeling. Barnaby pants, cheek stinging, the side of his lip bloodied, and there's little time after that to react to that same hand wrapping up into the thick of his hair, wrenching his head back.

He opens his mouth to protest – but that's a bad idea. A very bad one, what with the sudden press of something metal between his lips, slid over his tongue and tightened, then, with what feels like leather both beneath his chin and around the back of his head. Any and all protests were muffled, no matter how he shook his head or spat or squirmed – it was a damned _bridle_, controlling him like some animal, the effect only accentuated when something akin to reins jerk his head back, leaving him gasping and panting and cringing.

"I warned you," is his captor's simple retort, and Barnaby can do little but groan, trying so hard not to focus on the press and weight of metal tightly between his teeth, the way those reins are dragged back and knotted at the back of his head for safekeeping. He hears the man move away, feels him move away before anything else because those hands that are so cruelly warm are on his flesh again, this time behind him, dragging down his thighs and forcing them further apart.

His knees grind into the concrete floor as he struggles to keep his balance, his head falling forward as he sucks in long, heavy draughts of air. The blindfold is one thing – the handcuffs – the damn bit in his mouth – but the clang of something metal hitting the ground before one end of it is fastened to his left ankle is enough to _terrify_ him. Barnaby kicks and squirms, only for those hands to deftly catch hold of his other leg before he can get too far, and Barnaby sobs, then – shaking, as the other side of the spreader bar is strapped into place and he's left completely prone.

He doesn't have time to _think about it _before those hands are on him again – reaching for the reins and unknotting them, yanking upon them to force his head back. Barnaby's back bends with the pull, his spine curved and too-tense, jaw aching as sounds unwillingly choke themselves past his throat and into the open air – attempts at protests, all useless.

"You _do_ look good like this, Bunny-chan." The voice is so close to his ear, so damnably husky and _insistent_ that Barnaby shudders, trembles hard enough that his body starts to ache. He tries, desperately, not to think about his erection throbbing between his legs, because how can he be so turned on in a situation like this? Sweat clings to his skin and he quivers with the hand that runs down his spine, tracing every vertebrae and dragging blunt nails over the curve of his ass.

He loses track of movement again for a moment – so caught up in panting, _not_ hyperventilating, _not_ thinking about how he is enjoying this in some sick, sick way, because fuck, who would enjoy this, being bound up by some person he doesn't know but seems to know all the same and – and suddenly, there's something slick and wet pooled into his lower back, dripping down the cleft of his ass, oily and slippery and Barnaby attempts a vehement shake of his head, attempts in panicked desperation not to arch his back into the press of a pair of fingers that are suddenly teasing him.

It's too late to resist, of course, because they're already sliding in side of him – already stretching him wide and leaving his head straining to bow forward as he pants and moans. Oh, he's just given up. It feels good. He hates that it feels good, but this person seems to know exactly where to stroke – _how_ to stroke – how to press so deeply inside of him that his toes curl, that his hips jerk back as much as they can, that his thighs strain and shake as a third finger is added and god, his body is just _buckling_ as they twist and scissor and finally pull away again, leaving everything slick and ready and him feeling decidedly empty.

He simultaneously hopes that is the end of it and that there is _more._

His cock aches. Makes his back bow that much more, makes his head tip back almost willingly into the rough pull of those reins as he pants toward whatever ceiling is there. But Barnaby knows, very, very well, that this isn't the end of it, and that's made that much clearer when the other man's erection is grinding against him, those strong hands are on his hips and the reins are probably held between his teeth and oh, god, putting faces to that mental image, all blurry, makes Barnaby suck in a ragged breath that much faster –

The first inch of him slides inside and Barnaby's body buckles. He's more than those fingers to be sure, and so it shouldn't be this _easy_ – but his body is so eager, so damnably welcoming that he arches and wriggles his way back between panting, heaving sighs and the man just _laughs_ at him, no matter how breathless, grabs him by the hips and holds him still to make it that much easier to fuck him however he likes.

Barnaby's mouth simply falls open with the eventual, deep shove of the man's cock inside of him – their hips so tightly flush that every muscle in his body twinges and quivers, leaving him feeling weak and all the more helpless. That shouldn't make him flush as hot as it does. That shouldn't make him that much more eager, shouldn't leave him groaning and whimpering with every slide in and out of the other man inside of him, shouldn't make him try and shove himself back, knees and elbows digging into the floor – but it's slick and tight and gloriously, achingly hot all at once, and every thrust shoves him forward, yanks on the bit in his mouth, makes him sob and makes him tear up behind the blindfold, makes his _toes curl_ with the intensity of it.

It's no surprise that he comes so quickly, then – humiliatingly so, but god, he doesn't even care with how hard and intense and deep those shudders are that run through his body as he spills himself messily and is left sagging into his captor's hold, whom he is certain just _laughs_ at him, jerks him harder back against him, and keeps fucking him. Not that he lasts much longer, either – Barnaby feels another tremor rake through his form, something akin to a sick, _twisted_ second orgasm as he feels the man spill himself inside of him, and pulls out only a few moments later, sticky and slick and leaving Barnaby sore and aching as much as he has ever been.

"Good boy," is the taunting exhale against his ear, and Barnaby gives up and whimpers, because what else _can_ he do, at this point? He's flushed and humiliated and oh, god, still trembling from how hard he came. If he could, he would completely collapse to the floor –

"A good boy, indeed."

That's a second voice. One he certainly recognizes, and Barnaby's head jerks up, his eyes wide behind the blindfold. Another hand falls upon his head, petting his hair as if he's some cherished pet, and Barnaby feels his stomach twist and churn.

_Maverick._

"Don't worry, Barnaby. You won't remember any of this, either."

And so he doesn't.


End file.
